


Accused

by orphan_account



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Bet you didn't see that one coming, F/M, Historical AU, Salem Witch Trial AU, this is very early colonial in terms of relationship so sorry kids but not a lot of heavy romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the early colonies of the New World, Miss Jemma Simmons has made her way through life unmarried, untethered, and incredibly educated. A skilled and gifted midwife, Jemma has healed the sick, delivered healthy babies, and prevented countless deaths by childbirth. </p><p>But to be an intelligent and unmarried woman is a risky thing in these times, especially as hysteria about alleged witchcraft picks up speed throughout the small villages of New England. Accused of being a witch and taken from her bed in the middle of the night, Jemma Simmons finds herself tossed in a cell alongside another accused witch named Barbara Morse, who swears her husband will be coming for her. </p><p>Her jailer, a surprisingly kind man named Leopold Fitz, treats her with humanity. She’s sure that, despite his compassion, she is still just his prisoner, until he does something that shows she is more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accused

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I'm not really sure how this happened and it's kind of out of my usual wheelhouse. I'm not generally a historical fiction writer, but I had a lot of fun with this and it was a really interesting challenge. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy :)

It is a dangerous world to be a woman. It is an especially dangerous world to be an i _ntelligent_  woman. It’s something she should have considered, she thinks, before beginning her duties as the town healer. Gideon Malick, the town’s leader, had not taken well to her usurping his brother as the leading medical authority. 

 

She’s twenty years old, literate, single, and saving lives. 

 

In this world, she is a threat to order. 

 

She shouldn’t have been as surprised as she was when she was ripped from her home in the middle of the night by a hoard of villagers, shouting accusations of witchcraft. Regardless, she screamed and screamed, the echoes of it carrying into the night as she was shoved violently into a dingy stone prison cell. There was already an occupant, a young woman around her own age from two towns over. 

 

“My name is Barbara,” the blonde greets. At least Jemma thinks she must have been blonde, at some point, but now she’s so filthy it’s hard to tell.

 

“Jemma Simmons,” Jemma murmurs, hugging herself in the drafty cold of the New England night. She’s only in her sleeping gown, providing little protection from the elements. 

 

“Are you a midwife?” Barbara asks. 

 

“Something like that,” Jemma concedes. “How can they–why are they accusing me of witchcraft? It’s an absurd notion, isn’t it, that magic is real?” 

 

Barbara laughs humorlessly. “One would think, Miss Simmons, but reason is no longer governing here.” 

 

“What is, then?” 

 

“Fear,” Barbara answers seriously. “Fear of God, of women, of nature.” 

 

“How long have you been here?” Jemma asks fearfully. Barbara sighs, running her fingers over the tally marks in the stone beside her head. 

 

“Sixty-two days. When my husband returns from his trading trip, he’ll come for me. I know he will.” 

 

“I have no husband. I have no family,” Jemma says nervously. “I–no one will come for me.” 

 

Barbara chews on her lip. “When Lance comes, he will protect you too. Be sure of it. He’s a good man.” 

 

Jemma swallows hard to choke back her oncoming tears. Her new cellmate speaks with a strong voice and bright eyes. She has clearly not allowed this experience beat her, and Jemma won’t either. 

 

*** 

 

“Breakfast,” a gruff Scottish voice announces. Barbara, or Bobbi as Jemma has learned she prefers to be called by friends, smiles at him. Jemma looks between them in surprise. 

 

“Ah, Fitz. Have you met my new friend?” 

 

Fitz, the guard, turns to Jemma curiously. “Jemma Simmons, isn’t it?” 

 

Jemma nods. “Aye.” 

 

He grimaces. “They brought you from Providence, didn’t they?” 

 

Jemma nods again. “They did.” 

 

“A rough place, Providence,” he commiserates. Jemma stares down at the bread and slop on the metal plate that he hands her. “I know it’s not much but i’ve given you both more than allotted.” 

 

“It’s quite alright,” Jemma says politely, even though she would prefer to eat dirt over this disgusting meal. Bobbi, meanwhile, sits on the stone floor and digs in. 

 

“I’m a friend of Bobbi’s husband,” Fitz explains, gesturing at the other woman. She smiles at him, cheeks full of bread. 

 

“Is he coming soon then?” Jemma asks anxiously. 

 

Fitz puts his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I believe so. If he’s made it to the trading post, my messenger should arrive there soon.” 

 

“When will someone speak to me about my charges?” Jemma questions, more of a demand then a request. “I deserve to be told what I’ve been detained for.” 

 

“That’s–actually my job,” he winces. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. “You have been formally charged with witchcraft.” 

 

Jemma scoffs, still holding the plate in her hands. The food becomes more congealed by the minute. “Well that’s simply ridiculous! There’s no such thing as magic or witchcraft. If there were, I’d be the last to believe in such nonsense.” 

 

“I’m afraid it doesn’t matter what you believe,” Fitz says gravely. “If your village thinks that–” 

 

“My village is wrong!” 

 

He clears his throat. “If your village believes it, you  _will_  be convicted Miss Simmons. You will be tried by the magistrate and a jury of members of your peers.”

 

She sneers. “I have no peers in my village. Imbeciles, all of them!” 

 

Bobbi struggles to her feet and lays a hand on Jemma’s shoulder. “Please, Miss Simmons. Calm down.” 

 

“Calm down?” she shrieks wildly, fisting her hands in her hair. “All I ever wanted to do was help people, and this is the thanks I get for it? Few women die in child birth, more of my townspeople have survived illness than any other, and I’m repaid by accusations of witchcraft and nonsense.” 

 

“Trust me,” Bobbi tries to soothe, “if any person can understand what you’re going through, I can. My husband will come soon. He’ll help us.”

 

It’s only been a single day, but Jemma can’t quite muster the confidence that Bobbi has in her husband. Perhaps it’s because she’s never met the man, or that she’s never really been able to count on anyone of the male persuasion over the course of her life. 

 

Grimacing, Jemma sits daintily on the floor of her cell and picks at the food in front of her. Fitz lingers at the bars, waiting until Bobbi goes back to her side of the little room.

 

“Miss Simmons,” he says quietly. She looks up, a bit startled to find him kneeling so close to where she sits. “I know you’ve got no reason to trust me, or Barbara, or Lance Hunter. But I promise we’ll get this sorted out.” 

 

Jemma blinks at him. “Aren’t you on their side, Mr. Fitz?” 

 

He shakes his head wildly. “I am simply doing my job.” 

 

“It seems an awful one.” 

 

He grins crookedly. “It is, Miss Simmons, and I’m terribly sorry for all of this.” 

 

Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she looks away from him. “I understand, Mr. Fitz. Thank you for your kindness.” 

 

He takes his cue to leave, and once again rights himself. He strides from the jail house hallway and Jemma looks up to find Bobbi grinning at her like the cat that got the canary. 

 

“It looks to me like the jailmaster is quite taken with you.” 

 

“Oh, hush,” Jemma insists, cheeks a dusky pink.

 

“I’m only saying,” Bobbi teases, “Fitz is quite a good man.” 

 

“And I, a good man’s prisoner,” Jemma reminds her. Bobbi doesn’t seem fazed by this piece of information.

 

“It’s quite romantic, isn’t it?” 

 

“How long have you been married?” Jemma asks curiously. Bobbi laughs. 

 

“Lance and I were first married six years ago. Then we divorced–” 

 

Jemma gasps loudly, hand to her chest. “Divorced?” 

 

“Not legally, of course,” Bobbi dismisses. “We’re not  _royals_. We separated for a while and then, about a year ago, we found our way back to one another.” 

 

“Why did you separate?” 

 

“Oh, he is...unruly and difficult and often ill-tempered,” Bobbi sighs longingly. Jemma can’t quite connect the dreamy expression on Bobbi’s face to her words. Lip curling in quiet distaste, Jemma asks another question. 

 

“And why did you come back to him?” 

 

“Because I am unruly and difficult and often ill-tempered,” Bobbi giggles. Jemma can’t help the peel of laughter that tumbles from her lips. Rapid footsteps descend down the stairs and Fitz raises a finger to his lips.

 

“Quiet, you two!” he orders half-heartedly, but he’s smiling ever so slightly. Jemma immediately clamps her hands over her mouth, as does Bobbi. “Can’t have everyone thinking I’m letting the two of you have any fun, now.” 

 

“Of course not, Mr. Fitz,” Jemma grins. Bobbi mirrors her expression. 

 

“Yes, Leopold.” 

 

Fitz screws up his face in distaste. “I’ve told you not to call me that.” 

 

“Yes, well,” Bobbi says airily, “you’re not a very tough warden, you know.” 

 

“And what do you know of wardens?” Fitz challenges. 

 

Bobbi shrugs. “Oh, nothing.” 

 

It’s unconvincing, and for the first time Jemma feels a bit of fear toward her cell-mate. If Bobbi is a criminal–and it sounds as though she truly might be–than perhaps Jemma has placed her trust in the wrong person. 

 

But Bobbi is the only person she has, and so she settles in once more, the cold stones of the cell digging into her back. 

 

***

An entire week goes by. Bobbi continues to insist that her husband is coming for her, but her trial date looms closer and closer. It is not until the morning of her trial that Bobbi seems to finally panic. 

 

“He’s not coming,” she says numbly, hugging her knees to her chest. “I should have known he wouldn’t receive my letter, it’s not as though we have a proper post system--” 

 

Jemma can’t stand this, to watch her positive and incredibly strong new friend fall to pieces. “He will come, Bobbi. You know he will. From everything you told me, he  _loves_ you.” 

 

“Love has never our problem,” Bobbi laughs humorlessly. “It has always been timing or secrets or not telling one another everything that’s happening--” 

 

“You wrote to him,” Jemma says firmly. “And he’ll get the letter, and he will come, just in time. You’ll see.” 

 

Bobbi sighs and looks morosely at the stone ground. “We shall see, I suppose.” 

 

That’s when Fitz arrives, grim-faced and clearly upset. “They have moved up your time of trial. I am to bring you to the courthouse right away.” 

 

“What?” Jemma gasps, outraged. “No! This can’t be! She has four more hours, Fitz, you just told us that with our breakfast!” 

 

“I know,” he says softly, apologetically. “If I had any other choice--” 

 

“You do!” Jemma explodes. She’s filthy and aching and has hardly slept. “You do have a choice, Mr. Fitz! You can get her out of here, you can save her from being hung until death!” 

 

Bobbi flinches but stands, regal as Jemma has ever seen her. She pats down her grimy blonde hair and squares her shoulders.

 

“I will not run. I refuse to run.” 

 

Jemma had expected tears, some screaming, something. Instead, Bobbi walks cooly to the creaking cell gate. She takes Fitz’s arm delicately, and Jemma is immediately struck by the friendly and nonthreatening way that he cups her elbow--like a lady, not a prisoner. A friend, not an accused witch. 

 

He leads her upstairs and it is Jemma who collapses onto the floor to cry. If Bobbi could not make it out of here--how can she?

*** 

There is an explosive ruckus from the courtroom, a nearly indescribable sound that she’s fairly certain is some sort of weapon fire. A loud shout echoes through the hall and she sees Fitz, sweaty and disheveled, running full-speed toward her. He fumbles with the keys, unlocking the gate and yanking her roughly by the arms.

 

She yelps and draws away from him quickly. “What is the meaning of this?” 

 

“Lance Hunter has arrived with men. He’s attacked the courthouse to free his wife. Go, now.” 

 

“Go where?!” 

 

“Anywhere,” he pants. “Away from here. They’ll hang you, Miss Simmons, they won’t care what you have to say. Never married, a fortuitous doctor--” 

 

“Fortuitous?” Jemma scoffs. “I am brilliant, not merely lucky, Mr. Fitz.” 

 

“I know,” he breathes. “I know that, but they--they are not ready to accept that such a brain can reside in a woman. Disagree as I do, that does not change what they’ll do to you. You need to run, now, while everyone is distracted and i can say I was the same.” 

 

“What will happen to you?” she frets. Fitz shakes his head sharply. 

 

“That is not your concern.” 

 

“Of course it is!” she protests. “Mr. Fitz, you’re a dear friend to me, now, and--” 

 

“Yes, and you are more than that, Miss Simmons,” he tells her seriously. “Now go.” 

 

“I can’t leave you here--” 

 

“You must,” Fitz insists. He picks up a heavy, unlit torch from nearby and bangs it against the panel of the nearest window. It splinters outward and he holds his hands out to hoist her through. 

 

“Mr. Fitz, don’t make me do this.” 

 

He levels her with a steely look as footsteps approach. She hears another voice call out. 

 

“Quick! Do not let the other witch get away.” 

 

“Go with them,” Fitz hisses. “Get on their carriage now.” 

 

Tears in her eyes, she steps onto his hands and allows him to hoist her up. The wood of the sill cuts into her thigh but she looks back for one moment. 

 

“Mr. Fitz, will I see you again?” 

 

“Quite possibly, Miss Simmons. Quite possibly.” 

 

“Thank you,” she tells him genuinely. “For everything that you have done for me.” 

 

“Go!” he practically shouts. He shoves her out of the window, but she still sees what comes next--a guard of the court, one of the leaders of the village, punches FItz hard across the face. She stifles a scream and runs toward the rapidly accelerating horses. 

 

“Bobbi!” she calls. “Bobbi, wait!” 

 

A tall, broad-shouldered man pulls her onto the back of a cart with shocking strength. “Mr. Mackenzie,” he introduces. “You must be Barbara’s cell mate.” 

 

Bobbi laughs wildly from beside her husband. “He got you out! Oh, I knew that Mr. Fitz was a good man.” 

 

Jemma stares at the burning courthouse, the jailhouse room where Fitz is likely being punished for his mistake in letting her slip away. 

 

She hopes that she will see him again. If magic somehow does exist, she hopes it will bring him into her path once again. For now, she settles against the crudely built wagon and breathes the fresh air. 

 

She is free, because of him. It is not something she will soon forget. 


End file.
